I signed over two dozen books last night, until the librarian caught me and forced me to restrict my signings to my own What We Found in the Sofa. Eventually, I signed 26 of those.

Blah, blah, blah. I finally hawked up the hairball and was able to get on with the presentation.

The Q&A went very well, and we talked about everything from the middle-school guidance counselor who told me I would never be a writer (a deeply suppressed memory that the tweens’ needle-sharp interrogation brought to the surface; fortunately the library had a defibrillator ) to William Faulkner’s advice to writers, “kill your darlings.” My young audience had been unaware that William Faulkner was a serial killer, and many resolved to go out as him this Halloween. Suggesting, of course, the following Halloween doorstep scene:

Them: Trick or Treat!

Homeowner: Oh, how cunning! What an adorable Tinkerbelle! And such a cute zombie! And, oh! What a creepy William Faulkner! And, behind you, is that big, bad, Ernest Hemingway? Who’s that hiding in the cardboard box at the back? Oh! J. D. Salinger!

At my house, we’ve traditionally given out Oh Henrys and Clark bars on Halloween.